


Ambiguity

by JDominique37



Series: The Storm, the Stars, and the Skies (Kuroko no Basuke Stories) [4]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Childhood Friends, F/M, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, POV Original Female Character, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 14:49:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7319521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDominique37/pseuds/JDominique37
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course, fate has decided to put me in a class with Midorima Shintarou. Or that's what he would say, at least. "Etsuyo," he breathes out. For a moment, we just stare at each other. And then I let out a derisive laugh. "Finally caught on, have you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fall and Stand / Game Piece

He stood against him. It seemed like an impossible battle, and in the end, they lost anyway, but he never stopped fighting. I knew he wouldn’t give in, because he always told me that it was okay to fall down. The shame was in not standing up again.

Shuutoku High lost to Rakuzan High. An epic game between a king and an emperor, a war made clear between two strong teams containing Generation of Miracles.

Some might say that it’s clear now that Akashi Seijurou of Rakuzan is stronger. He beat Shuutoku, King of the East, so that naturally means he is better, faster, more dangerous.

Maybe he is.

But one’s qualities in basketball are not everything.

And part of me wants to still believe that Midorima Shintarou, the first-year ace of Shuutoku, the shooting guard of the Generation of Miracles, the boy who believes in fate and never misses, is strong, too. And that he’ll stand up again.

Because, after all, the shame isn’t in falling down.

* * *

 He has sent his team ahead of him. He’s alone.

My breath catches because I hardly see him by himself anymore. Perhaps that’s strange, because when I knew him, I was his only friend. But now, he is usually with the basketball team, or with the point guard Takao Kazunari.

But now, he is alone.

He’s leaning against a wall, a fist pressed against it, forehead hidden by his bangs. I step forward, shadows encasing me, wondering if I should make my presence known.

Then his chest heaves.

He gasps.

He sobs.

He cries.

“Shin—”

He stands up so fast, whirling around so quickly, that I jolt, returning to the shadows.

“Who’s there?” he asks, swiping at his face angrily, shifting his glasses to wipe the tears away.

I hesitate for a moment. Then I say, “It’s just me.”

His eyes narrow, trying to discern me in the darkness of the unlit hall. “I don’t know who you are,” he says, his voice dispassionate. “If you have business with me, please state it. Otherwise . . . please leave me alone.”

My heart sinks. He doesn’t recognize me. Sure, it’s dark, and yes, it’s been years . . . but some part of me hoped that even with all that, he’d be able to . . . because of the bond we’d shared as children.

But he doesn’t.

“All right,” I say. “I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

I move backwards, until my back hits the wall, then I twist and, without even caring how I look, race away from him.

The tears start to spill out of my eyes as I run farther and farther from him. Because even if he doesn’t remember me, I still remember him.


	2. Chance Encounter / High Quality Tea

I really shouldn’t be surprised.

After spotting my name on the class roster, I immediately headed toward class. I didn’t even bother to see if I recognized anyone else’s names with mine.

But, of course, fate has decided to put me in a class with Midorima Shintarou.

Or that’s what he would say, at least.

He and his friend, Takao Kazunari of the basketball team, have just walked into class. A few girls approach Takao, and the black-haired boy immediately starts chatting with them, waving his hands around animatedly. The girls cast curious glances toward Midorima who steadily ignores them, choosing a seat behind Takao, and taking out his things to arrange them in an orderly manner on his desk. He hasn’t changed in that way apparently.

I am currently situated in the back left corner, where I can casually observe everyone. He doesn’t even look my way, and even when I stare at him for several seconds straight, hard, he doesn’t turn around. I’ve heard that people can feel it when you watch them, but maybe that’s not true. Or maybe he’s just dense.

Our homeroom teacher, Ishibashi-sensei, walks in at that moment, cheerfully waving his hands at us. “Good morning, everyone. Don’t get too comfortable in your seats just now.” He plants a small cardboard box onto his desk with a thud. “We’re getting a seating chart!”

Everyone groans, and I hear Midorima audibly sigh as he begins to gather his things back up into his bag.

“Please come and pick a number, everybody,” Ishibashi-sensei says. “I’ll write the corresponding desks on the board while you do that.”

I stay seated for a moment, waiting for about half of the people to go forward to pick their numbers before I rise from my desk and join the throng.

As I grab my number — a 6 — someone bumps into me.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice says. “I need your number, please.”

I turn my head slightly, not wanting to garner attention on the first day. “Sure, here.”

I don’t care about my seat, after all.

And then I realize who was speaking.

My eyes dart up to his face, straight into his light green eyes, framed by glasses, which widen at the sight of me.

“Etsuyo,” he breathes out.

For a moment, we just stare at each other.

And then I let out a derisive laugh. “Finally caught on, have you?”

I dart past him and reach forward to grab the last slip of paper, the others already having gone past and gotten theirs. I turn it over to see the number 7. When I look up at the board, I see that numbers 6 and 7 are conveniently right next to each other. Of course.

As I slide into the seat next to Midorima, he fidgets slightly. Then he says, “Cancer is ranked six today. There are twenty-four students in this class. I was going to be the twelfth to receive my number. However, you got one first, so . . .”

“You needed my number,” I say. “Which was, of course, a perfect six. Oha-Asa is always right.” I parrot the words before him with a mocking smile.

He curls his fingers together, uncurls them, curls them together again. “Yes.”

“You don’t need to explain that to me,” I say. “I know.”

“But you’re Cancer as well, and I —”

“You didn’t take away my luck or anything,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”

“Nonetheless, we should find you the lucky item of the day just to be sure.”

I wrinkle my nose and pass my gaze over his person. “What is it?”

He reaches into his pocket and draws out a small packet of dark herbs. “High-quality green tea,” he says.

Well, it could be worse.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be drinking it all day long?” I ask him.

His eyes widen marginally. “I didn’t think of that.”

I nearly pound my head on my desk. Instead, I flash him a grin, and say, “Nice to see you again, Shin.”

He pockets the tea packet, and frowns slightly. “I didn’t know you were coming back.”

“I’ve been back.”

“What?”

“This is my second year at Shuutoku, same as you.”

He stares at me. Squints.

Before he can form a reply, though, Takao Kazunari tumbles onto the top of his desk, wrinkling Midorima’s finely organized papers. I shrink back.

“Shin-chan!” he cries. “We got separated! I can’t believe it. What am I gonna do without your rolly pencil?”

“Obviously, this is a good thing, Takao,” Midorima says. “Perhaps you will actually learn proper study habits now.”

“You’re so cold, Shin-chan,” Takao says, but he laughs. Then he glances over at me. “Who’s this? You guys were talking.”

Midorima glances over at me, and something like worry passes over his face. “This is . . .” He pauses, allowing me a moment to introduce myself. When it becomes clear that I’m not going to say anything, he continues. “. . . Fukui Etsuyo. She and I used to be friends when we were children.”

I suppose that’s a good enough way to put it. We were friends. Our relationship now is a bit more ambiguous.

“Etsu-chan, then?” Takao grins, and I’m put off by the already familiar usage of my name. “Well, any friend of Shin-chan’s is a friend of mine. I’m Takao Kazunari. Pleased to meet you!”

“N-nice to meet you,” I mumble.

I feel Midorima’s gaze on me, and I stare at him, pleading. He coughs, and says, “Takao, shouldn’t you get back to your seat? Ishibashi-sensei will probably start announcements soon.”

“Trying to get rid of me, huh? Fine, fine, whatever.”

As Takao leaves, I release a breath.

Midorima says, “You haven’t gotten much better.”

“A bit,” I defend myself. “I can talk to people when I have something to say. It’s just . . . small talk and socializing and unexpected situations throw me off still.”

“I see.”

He doesn’t say anything further.

Ishibashi-sensei stands up and begins rambling about the start of the school year. Midorima appears to be paying attention, but I wonder what he is really thinking.

All I can think about is him.

* * *

During lunch, Takao joins us again. He talks non-stop for nearly the whole period, and I have to wonder if he swallows any of his food. He asks me a few questions, and I attempt to answer, mostly in monosyllabic forms, as my mind can’t seem to come up with anything more exciting.

“So how exactly do you two know each other?” he asks.

“We used to be neighbors,” Midorima says. “Before she moved to the country.”

“Oh, so you lived in the country? How did you like it there?”

“I prefer the city,” I say. “More’s happening here.”

“Yeah, I guess. So, tell me, Etsu-chan, has Shin-chan always been like this?” He jerks his head toward Midorima.

I frown, perplexed. “Like what?”

“You know, his whole fate and destiny and Oha-Asa is law, nanodayo. And don’t forget ‘lucky item desu’!”

Despite myself, I let out a laugh. Takao looks thoroughly pleased with himself.

I say, “Yeah, he’s been like that for as long as I’ve known him.”

“Wow. So it’s like really natural to him, huh?”

I nod. “As natural as breathing.”

Midorima scowls at the two of us. “Fate is not something to be trifled with,” he says. “You both should take it more seriously.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I say, “but I’ll pass.”

“Takao is a Scorpio,” Midorima informs me, then to Takao he says, “and Etsuyo is a Cancer.”

“Oh, so you both have the same sign! That’s cool. Does that mean you’re like destined for each other or something?”

Midorima’s face flares red, and he smacks Takao on the head so hard that the point guard falls off the desk he was sitting on.

I, meanwhile, have no idea what to make of the situation. For one, I was savoring the sound of hearing Midorima say my name again. And then, there was Takao’s comment, which made my own cheeks flush. And finally, Midorima’s reaction. I mean, what was with that?

Takao pulls himself up and back onto the desk, laughing. “Shin-chan, you’re so sensitive. Etsu-chan’s really pretty, you know.”

“I — I —” I’m sure my cheeks are bright red now. I can’t seem to form any sort of sentence at all, either.

Midorima ducks his head. He says, “Cancers aren’t _just_ compatible with fellow Cancers.”

“Well, if you don’t like her like that, then that mean she’s free for grabs,” Takao says. “Etsu-chan, has anyone ever told you that you have really pretty green eyes? Like the sea.”

No one has, actually. But I’m not about to tell him that. “T-thanks.”

He grins, and shoots a look at Midorima, like he’s saying, _That’s how you do it._

* * *

Somehow, Midorima ends up walking me home that day. Perhaps it is Takao who convinces him, saying that “Shin-chan, you shouldn’t make a lady walk by herself in the dark,” even though it’s hardly dark yet.

Or perhaps it’s just a favor to whatever we used to have.

Whatever it is, I am glad.

For the first few minutes, we walk in silence, me walking a few paces in front of him, directing the way.

Then he says, “How come you never told me you were back?”

I cock my head slightly. “I don’t know. I was going to. I mean, I thought about surprising you. I arrived at Shuutoku, my first day of high school. I was excited and nervous, so anxious. And you were there. I wanted to talk to you, but then . . . I never found the courage, I guess. And then you were always surrounded by people, like Takao and your teammates.”

There’s a pause. “That’s not an excuse,” he says.

I stop. Then I whirl around, and I poke him in the chest, hard. He is much taller than me. He’s always been taller than me, but in the last few years, he’s practically a giant compared to me now. I have to crane my neck to look at him.

“Well, yeah?” I say, nearly shouting. “Well, who was it that stopped replying to my letters, huh? Who was it that promised to write me but then just stopped out of the blue without a word, without any explanation, and no matter how much I tried to contact you again, never replied? Excuse _me_ for not speaking to you after that!”

He stares at me, then looks away, adjusting his glasses as he does. “I’m . . . sorry,” he says.

I wait for him to continue, but he says nothing more.

I sigh, the anger that was in me just moments ago dispelling. “Come on,” I say. “My house isn’t much further.”

I move to turn around, but before I can fully rotate, he reaches out and grabs my hand. “Etsuyo,” he says. “I really am sorry. But regardless of all that . . . I’m glad you’re here now.” 

* * *

 

We reach my home in silence. I key in the code for the apartment, and as it clicks open, I push it forward with a quiet whoosh. “You can come on in,” I tell him, turning on the light as I enter. He hesitates before following me in and taking off his shoes.

With any other person, I might be embarrassed by the state of our house, but with him, he’s probably used to it.

My parents are collectors in a way. Well, my father is. My mother put up with it for a while, then . . . But Dad love antique items, cool knickknacks, and weird or unique items that take up space. Basically, our house is piled up with random objects of all sizes, colors, and variety, and is such a winding maze that it’s rather dangerous.

“Careful where you step,” I warn him.

“Are your parents home?” he asks.

“It’s only Dad and I here,” I say, “and he’s probably still at work. Mom’s still back in the country.”

As I pick my way through the family room, slinging my bag onto the couch (one of the only free places), I say, “What’s your lucky item for tomorrow?”

“A beige scarf,” he replies readily.

“Oh, I think I have one of those. You can borrow it.”

“Won’t you need it?”

“Of course not.”

“You should take this more seriously.”

I flash him a grin, and for some reason, he looks disconcerted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes. First of all, as implied by its name, this story will have a lot of vague references, and there won't be a lot of definite developments or whatnot. Since this is a very short story (around 17K words), it only focuses on what is most important, leaving the rest kinda . . . well, ambiguous? 
> 
> Secondly: I wrote this story under the false impression that you were able to know what the lucky items were the night before. Well . . . that's not strictly true. But for this story, let's just pretend that, okay? :P Sorry for the mistake, but by the time I realized it, the story had already been written, and I would've had to change a lot. 
> 
> I hope you guys liked chapter two. Thanks for reading!


	3. Differences / Clock

“Etsuyo,” Midorima calls, walking into my house without further precept. “I am in need of a stuffed rabbit.”

“It’s probably by the couch,” I say without glancing over, too busy packing my bento for the day.

“Ah, found it. Why would your father find this valuable?”

“Soft fur, perhaps?”

“I doubt it.”

“Nice red ribbon?”

“It’s kind of shiny. . . .”

“Beady black eyes,” I guess.

He frowns at me.

I shrug. “He has weird taste, okay?”

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter why. I’m just lucky that you have all of these, so I don’t have to go out and buy them.”

Lately, Midorima has been coming over to my house a lot to retrieve his lucky items. He’ll either come in the morning before school, or at night the day before, depending on the item and how easily accessible it is. He’s constantly asking me to make sure I don’t mind him coming over and borrowing Dad’s things, but I always assure him it’s fine.

After all, I don’t mind him walking me to school. Just seeing him is nice.

As the days pass, we’re becoming more comfortable around each other again. We don’t talk much about the years we missed, but rather, talk about the present times. He rattles on about fate (of course) and I’ll either agree with his ideals or sometimes argue with his weirder views.

When we were kids, our relationship was simple enough. He was the geek, the nerd, but was surprisingly talented at basketball. I was his neighbor, a girl his age, and therefore his only friend. At first, one wouldn’t think that the two of us would make a good pair, but we got along surprisingly well. I tolerated his ramblings about fate and would often tease him enough to get him to loosen up. And he, whenever I would shy away from people or have a panic attack from social anxiety, would stand up for me or comfort me.

It stayed that way until we were eight years old. Then, things began to change. He got stronger and faster at basketball. And I . . . I retreated further into a shell of myself, too scared of speaking to be able to do anything.

And then I moved. We both promised to write each other every day. For several months, we did. But then life started to interrupt. All right, we said, every week then. It continued that way for the next year. But life, once again, took over. It became every month until, eventually, during middle school . . . he stopped replying altogether.

At first, I thought his letter had just gotten lost in the mail. I waited for several weeks. I wrote him again. Waited. Wrote again. Waited some more. I tried calling him, only to be told they’d moved. And then . . . I just stopped, as well.

The thing was, the distance wasn’t the only thing between us. Even the words in our letters spoke of the differences between us. And as we both grew, so did the differences.

So perhaps that’s another reason why I never spoke to him when I entered Shuutoku.

We are both different now, different than who we were as kids. It is natural, of course, for us to have changed over the last eight years.

But even though I’ve changed and he’s changed, I know that I still value him. As a friend or even something more. And I hope that he can somehow find it in himself to see me as not the same girl as before, but someone he can rely on.

* * *

I am slowly becoming more comfortable around Takao as well. There’s a charm to him that’s almost impossible to resist. Even Midorima is not immune to it.

Takao sits a few desks away from us, but he always comes over to us whenever he can, and groups up with us whenever possible, although I’m sure several of the girls would like to be in a group with him. It’s not that he’s especially cute, but because of his friendly and funny nature, it makes him more attractive.

Plus, he’s made it onto Shuutoku’s basketball team as a regular as a first-year, too, so that has its merits.

“See, Etsu-chan,” Takao says one afternoon as I’m watching Shuutoku practice from the sidelines. “This is how you do it.” He dribbles the ball experimentally a few times before racing toward the hoop and dumping it neatly through the hoop.

“Looks great,” I say. “But I’m short. And clumsy.”

“It’s true,” Midorima says, walking over to the two of us, a ball in his left hand, his right pushing up his glasses. Half of the team is running drills on side of the court, while the other half (which Midorima and Takao are in) are doing general practice, which gives them time to talk to me.

I glare at Midorima. “No need to confirm my inabilities.”

Takao laughs. “I’m sure you can’t be that bad. No one’s that bad. Especially with practice. Here, come onto the court. I’ll teach you how to shoot a proper basket right now.”

“We’re practicing right now,” Midorima says promptly, his gaze darting over to the coach. “It’s probably not allowed.”

“They won’t mind. Hey, Coach, can Etsu-chan come onto the court? I wanna teach her some basketball!”

I shrink under the coach’s gaze, suddenly aware of his attention and a few of the other team members’. I wish Takao wasn’t one of those people who just did things on a whim, never consulting you . . . but then again, maybe I need someone like that in my life. I should probably take chances more.

“Sure,” Coach Nakatani finally says. “Might as well.”

Takao whoops, and immediately drags me onto the court despite my protests. I can immediately feel the stares of all the other basketball players and how I am most definitely the smallest person on the court (I mean, I _am_ a girl — and a short one at that).

“Do you know how to dribble, Etsu-chan?” Takao asks.

“A little,” I say. “I used to play with Shin when we were younger.”

He nods. “That makes sense.” Then he smirks. “Hey, so tell me, was Shin-chan still such a prodigy when he was a kid, or is it, like, an acquired talent — hey!” He stops speaking as Midorima approaches and whacks him on the head with a ball.

“You should teach her to shoot first,” Midorima says, glancing at me. “Etsuyo’s always been awful at shooting.”

“That’s not —”

“Well, let’s see what you’ve got, Etsu-chan,” Takao says, cheerfully tossing me a ball, which I just barely manage to catch. Midorima raises an eyebrow. I shoot another glare at him, which he ignores, crouching down, before rising up and launching his own ball into the air. It soars through the hoop with barely a sound.

“Show-off,” I mutter.

“Totally,” Takao agrees.

I revolve the ball around in my hand, trying to get a feel for it, and approach the hoop. The other players move away, clearly apprehensive of having a girl on court. I can feel all their eyes on me and my cheeks begin to heat up. Why did I get pulled into this? At least I’m not having to talk to anybody . . . though showing off my less-than-admirable basketball skills is hardly better.

I shoot the ball through the fingertips before I can doubt myself any further. And —

It goes in.

My eyes widen in surprised. It actually went in!

“What was that you were saying, Shin-chan?” Takao asks, hooting with laughter. Midorima glances at me, an indiscernible expression on his face. I’m sure both of us know that shot was a fluke, but now that I seem to have established myself as at least halfway decent at basketball, the other boys of the team begin to approach me.

“Hey, that was a pretty good shot!” one says.

“Did you learn from Midorima?” another asks. “You two are friends, right?”

I take a step back, my pulse beginning to speed up. There are too many of them . . . and I can’t seem to find the words to ask them . . . please, _back away, give me space, I can’t handle this_. Not that I would say that . . . because that just makes me look pathetic, right? The girl who can’t speak to anyone, who takes weeks and weeks to get comfortable with just one person. It’s . . .

My breathing becomes shallow, and some of the boys’ faces begin to show concern when I still don’t speak.

What do I do? Midorima —

His hand lands firmly on my shoulder. All my breath seems to release from me. And then I take in another deep breath.

“Etsuyo,” he says.

For a moment, that’s all.

But it’s enough.

* * *

The next day, I’m checking my bag one last time and am about to head out when there’s a swift knock on my door, and Midorima barges in. He collides straight into me, and we tumble down, crashing into the back of couch.

He straightens immediately, though I see a tinge of red in his cheeks.

“I’m late, Etsuyo,” he blurts. His glasses slide down his nose, and he pushes them back up. “I need a clock.”

“A — a clock?” I pull myself up, my cheeks warm, still remembering the pressure of his body against mine moments ago.

“Yes. My lucky item for the day. An antique clock. Surely you must have one.”

“Yes, but . . .”

I point to our antique clock, and nod as dismay flashes across his face. It’s three feet tall, thick wood, with intricate carvings, and golden linings. Basically, it’ll be a pain to carry around all day.

Nevertheless, Midorima grits his teeth together, shifts his bag more comfortably on his shoulder, and approaches the clock, stepping around various other items on his way.

“Careful, it’s heav— ”

He picks it up, only grunting slightly, and I close my mouth. He’s gotten stronger, too. I’ll have to keep that in mind.

He walks like that all the way to school, but a teacher starkly tells him no when he tries to bring it into the building.

All that for nothing.


	4. Relationships / Whispers

He calls me Etsuyo in private, but when we’re around other people, he says Fukui-san. Likewise, I’ll call him Midorima-kun, and when we’re alone, I’ll call him Shin, like I used to when we were kids.

Either way, it is weird to be hearing him saying my name again, and to hear his name coming out of my mouth. Long whiles of being apart can do that to you.

Today, at school, he whispers my name: _“Etsuyo.”_

For some reason, I whisper back, _“Shintarou.”_ Then I revert my voice to normal volume. “What’s today’s lucky item? You didn’t come to my house this morning.”

He gives me a pained look, and continues whispering. “Cancer is ranked eighth today. Our lucky item is _whispering_. You should lower your voice.”

I stare at him. “Whispering? Are you kidding me? That’s not even an item!”

He winces, like a headache is forming from the loudness of my voice. “That’s what it said.”

“So you’re seriously going to whisper all day?”

“That’s what it said,” he repeats.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He opts not to say anything further at that moment.

“You’re ridiculous,” I tell him.

That day, whenever the teachers call on him, they continually ask him to raise his voice.

* * *

Dad returns home early from work that night. “Say, wanna go catch a bite to eat?” he asks. “Just the two of us, a nice father-daughter date.”

I cock my head, thinking over the amount of homework I have, and deciding it’s minimal enough that I can afford it. “Sure.”

“Great!” He grins at me.

We head to our favorite restaurant and order our usual. He quizzes me about the normal things, how the new school year is going, my grades, and he even asks if I’ve talked to Mom lately.

I hesitate before I answer that one. Since he and Mom divorced, he rarely brings up the subject of her anymore, though Mom has no trouble talking about him. I say, “Yeah, I talked to her yesterday. She seemed well. She’s thinking about taking a vacation to America soon.”

“Really? That’s cool. She does speak English well.”

I give him a small smile, and swirl my spoon in the dessert. “How’s work been going?” I ask him.

“Busy,” he replies. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to spend much time with you lately. But we have a lot going on . . .”

“I understand.”

“More importantly, was that Midorima-kun I saw the other day?”

I start, and drop my spoon onto my plate with a clatter.

He smiles. “I suppose so.”

“You saw us?” I ask, dumb-founded.

“I figured that was him,” Dad says. “Boy, he sure has grown.”

“Yeah,” I say absentmindedly, thinking of how he towers over me.

“Are you two still friends, then?”

“I guess so.”

“He still crazy about — what was it — Oha-Asa?”

“Pretty much. He’s been coming over to the house to get some of his lucky items.”

Dad snorts. “Well, I’m glad they’re being put to some good use.”

I smile, and make a note to tell that to Midorima later.

“Anyhow,” Dad says, “he’s a good boy. I’m glad he’s still your friend, Etsuyo. You should bring him over for dinner sometime. Not that I’m ever home anymore.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Tell you what, I’ll clear a night, and you can have him over, okay?”

“Oh, that — that’s not necessary, Dad. Really. I mean, he —”

“Come on,” Dad says. “Friends have friends over. And I’m a great cook.”

“Awful, you mean,” I correct. “If I recall right, _I’m_ the good one. But we never have anything in the fridge except frozen packages, which is why we always go out when we’re together.”

He frowns. “Well, get me a list of ingredients together, then, and a budget, and I’ll get you some money, okay? We should start eating at home more. Eating out is expensive.”

I nod. “Sure.”

“But about Midorima-kun . . .”

“Fine. I’ll invite him.”

Dad grins. “Great. I’m looking forward to it. He was always interesting to be around.”


	5. Phone Calls / Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't noticed already, the chapter titles were born from 1) just something from the chapter (so, basically, normal chapter titles), and then 2) Midorima's lucky items. Because what's a Midorima story without his lucky items? Thanks for reading, and enjoy!

_Buzzz. Buzzz._

“Ugh. Who is it?” I moan to myself. I grapple for my phone on my nightstand and, without even opening my eyes, flip it open to answer the call. “Hello?”

“Etsuyo?”

“Shin?” I blink and open my eyes, staring up at the ceiling, which is pale yellow in the sunlight.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.”

Well, not really . . .

“Cancer is ranked second today, but that doesn’t mean we should let our guard down,” he says pompously into the phone.

“Yeah, yeah. So what’s the lucky item for today?”

There’s a long pause. Then, so quietly that I can barely hear him, he says, “Cat.”

“Cat?”

“A cat,” he repeats. “That’s today’s lucky item.”

“Like a stuffed cat or a live one?”

“I’m assuming a live one, since it usually says if it’s stuffed or not.”

“Brilliant.”

“Etsuyo . . .”

“Right, right . . . um, hang on . . . I know . . . you don’t like cats, right? That’s why you’re calling me so early in the morning on a weekend.” I yawn loudly to make my point.

“It’s eleven o’clock.”

“Seriously?”

“That aside, we should be searching for one quickly before something disastrous happens.”

“Nothing’s going to happen. Besides, cats are easy to find.”

* * *

An hour later, I meet up with Midorima and Takao at a local restaurant. We stop for a quick bite for lunch before Takao lays out his plans for finding Midorima’s “cat.”

“So my sister just adopted a cat,” he says. “We went to this shelter not too far away from here. I was thinking we could go there. They have a wide variety of animals.”

“Wait, are we going to _adopt_ a cat?” I ask. “I mean . . . that’s kind of a lifelong commitment for just one day’s lucky item.”

“Maybe we could borrow it for the day?” Takao suggests.

“Of course not,” Midorima snaps. “That’s illogical. Moreover, why didn’t you just bring your sister’s cat?”

“Are you kidding me? She’s stuck to that kitten like glue! If you think I can pry that cat away for a day let alone a few minutes, you’re nuts!”

Midorima sighs and pushes his glasses up. “Well, then, any other ideas? Etsuyo?”

“We could look for a stray,” I suggest.

“That would take too long.”

“Do you know anyone else with a cat?” I ask. I glance at Takao, who probably has more friends than Midorima.

“Perhaps we should just stay at the shelter all day,” Takao muses.

“That’s kind of suspicious, though, isn’t it?” I say.

“Not if we tell them what we’re doing,” Midorima says.

“Are you kidding? Do you think they’ll really believe your Oha-Asa junk? They’ll just think we’re weirdos!”

He narrows his eyes at me and I try to put on an innocent expression.

“Fine,” Takao says, throwing up his hands. “We’ll just go over to my house then. And you guys will have to spend all day with my sister!” He points a finger at us, and I get the feeling we’re committing to something quite big.

* * *

As it turns out, the sister is the least of our problems. Or rather, Midorima’s. When we step into the house, and Takao’s little sister comes running up to us, holding a tiny kitten in her hands, he freezes.

“Mom and Dad aren’t home yet,” Takao says, kneeling down in front of his sister and petting the cat per her request. “Do you guys want a snack or anything?”

I’m about to point out that we just ate when Midorima stiffly says, “I — I will go make something.”

“Sure.” Takao smirks.

I blink in Midorima’s direction, then turn back to Takao and his little sister.

“Natsuko,” Takao says, “this is Etsu-chan. She’s our friend. She’s gonna be here for the day.”

Natsuko stares up at me, wide-eyed, the small kitten in her arms struggling to get free.

“H-hi,” I say.

“Hi,” she says softly. I attempt a smile, but my interactions with children are hardly any better than they are with my peers.

“I’m going to help Shin with the food,” I announce, and I quickly make my way to where he disappeared.

I find the kitchen, where Midorima seems to know his way around and is pulling out various snacks. He’s terrible at cooking, so I know he wouldn’t even try making something decent. I sidle toward him and say, “It’s just a cat, you know.”

“It’s just a child,” he retorts.

I glower. “Still, I don’t know why you hate cats so much. Just because one scratched you once doesn’t mean they’re all evil.”

He shrugs.

“What? No logical explanation? Wow.”

He sends me a look before opening a can of red bean soup and beginning to chug it.

I sigh and slump against the countertop. “I guess it’s better to be scared of cats than people, though.”

“I’m not —”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

He sets the can down and looks at me. “Etsuyo.” He pauses and licks his lips before continuing. “I know . . . it may be hard for you, but I also know that you have the potential to overcome the fear inside of you.”

“If I can, that means you can hold that cat,” I say, straightening.

“W-what?” I grab him, and before he can protest further, I pull him back into the room with Takao and Natsuko.

And I make him hold the cat.

* * *

I get another phone call later that day. “Hello?” I say as I answer.

“Etsuyo? Hello, darling?”

“Mom?” I say, surprised. “You don’t usually call this late. What’s up?”

“Oh, I just had something exciting I wanted to share with you. I mean, I suppose it’s not that exciting for you, it’s just exciting for me. Well, I mean . . .” She babbles on for a few more seconds like this. My mom, always so full of energy.

“What is it?” I prompt her.

“Well, I just went on a date with this guy,” she starts, “and it was really amazing. Etsuyo, I haven’t felt this way since your dad. He’s really promising. And he’s interested in the American culture as well. He’s thinking about doing business there, so it would really work out well. We really hit it off, and — Etsuyo? Are you there?”

For a moment, I don’t say anything, letting her words sink in. Then, “You went out on a date?”

“Yes. His name is ­Hada Teiji. He’s a really nice guy. I think you would like him! He’s —”

I bite my lip. “Isn’t this a bit soon, Mom? It’s only been a year.”

Her breath catches. Silence. She says, “I’m allowed happiness, Etsuyo. And when you’re older, a year is plenty of time. Hada-san is a good man. I think I could be happy with him. I’ve known him for a while now, and our date was really nice and romantic. He was —”

“Dad still loves you,” I cut in.

She hangs up on me then.

That is the one thing Mom cannot stand: that someone still cares for her, and yet she abandoned them.


	6. Day Trips and Daring / The Lake

Slowly, seeing him becomes normal. Talking to him becomes a daily occurrence. I become familiar with how he is now, and I think he becomes used to who I am now.

Lately, we’ve been having fairly normal lucky items again. He still frequents my house, though, sometimes even coming over to walk me to school even when he’s already acquired the item the night before.

Their summer basketball competition, Inter-High, is approaching. Last year, I went to all of their games, and even snuck in to watch some of their practices. This year, however, Midorima’s personally invited me, and I’m now allowed to come to their practice whenever I want.

When I tell him that I watched all of his games last year, he looks taken aback. “All of them?” he repeats.

I nod. “You guys all did great. You’ve grown a lot stronger, too. I remember when you used to fumble your passes.”

His face goes red. He would never make such a mistake now — passing is child’s play — but as a kid, he’d put most of his efforts into shooting, which he’d excelled at. When we’d played together, I always got angry at him for hogging the ball. He’d pass to me, but clumsily and I’d have to race after it. I’d then try to shoot the ball and marvelously miss, which he would never let me live down.

“Don’t tell anyone that,” he hisses at me as we walk toward the gym for his practice.

I laugh. “Like I’d be able to, you know.”

He frowns. “You can talk to Takao.”

“After weeks now.”

“But that’s progress.”

“Still.”

He gazes off into the distance and says, “Maybe you should just practice more, then. My team —”

I shake my head fervently, thinking back to that day when I just happened to make that lucky shot in front of everyone. “No, I can’t do that. It’s too . . . no.”

He doesn’t press further.

I wonder of his usage “my team,” and smile. So he thinks that way now.

* * *

“That’s seventy-seven,” I call, and Midorima relaxes his arms as the last ball soars through the air in a perfect, smooth arc before landing through the hoop with a swoosh.

All of the others have already gone home, so Midorima and I are alone in the gym. I hop off the bleachers, and begin picking up balls to return them to the bin.

“Thanks,” he says, gathering a few into his arms as well.

“Shouldn’t you try to be shooting seven million seven hundred seventy-seven thousand and seven hundred and seventy-seven?” I ask.

He stares at me for a few moments, then he says, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

I grin and toss several more balls into the bin. “That’d be a feat, though, eh?”

“A true miracle,” he replies.

After we’ve finished cleaning up the balls, he walks me home. He carries the lucky of the day’s item in his hand: a wire hanger, twirling the handle between his fingers every so often.

When we’re at the corner of my apartment, he says, “Etsuyo.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you have anything going on tomorrow?”

I frown, thinking it over. “No. Why?”

“Would you like to go on a day trip? With me. It’s short. Just a few hours away.”

Just him?

I find myself accepting.

* * *

We take a train out of Tokyo, and Midorima gives me the window seat so I can watch the land flash by. Two hours later, we ride a bus to a mountain.

“What’s here?” I ask him, puzzled, as we pile off the bus with a few other tourists, and gaze up at the mountain which is spotted with trees.

“Today’s lucky item,” he says.

“I figured that.”

He glances over at me. “But it’s interesting as well. I’ve always wanted to visit this place but never had an excuse to before.”

“So, of course, fate is convenient.”

“And Oha-Asa is never wrong.”

It takes us a long time to trek up the mountain. Midorima won’t tell me what it is exactly we’re looking for (the mountain peak, perhaps?), saying he wants it to be a surprise, so he keeps the map and navigates for us. I just hope he’s good with directions.

The mountain is beautiful, though, I have to admit. The trees are evenly spaced all around, their leaves green and delicate. The ground is soft, the dirt smells fresh, and all around bright sunlight shines through the air.

Eventually, the ground begins to flatten out which gives relief to my poor, aching legs, which are not used to such physical strain. Midorima hardly seems bothered, though, and he’s carrying the pack with our food and water, too.

Then we come to a cliff.

I cry out and backpedal into Midorima who grabs my shoulders to keep me steady.

“Ah, here we are,” he says.

Below us, a large lake spreads out, the water deep but clear and beautiful, shimmering in the sunlight.

“A lake?” I shrill. “That’s what we came here for? I — I don’t even have a swimsuit!”

He peeks inside our pack and says, “But you did bring a change of clothes.”

“But — but —”

He sets the pack onto the ground and edges toward the cliff. “Many people enjoy diving off here,” he says and glances back at me. “You should go first and test the waters. Don’t worry. Cancer is ranked first today. Your safety is assured.”

“Why do I have to go first?”

“You always were terrible at initiating things, Etsuyo,” he says, sighing. He motions out over the lake, and even leans slightly over.

“S-stop it, Shin! You’re freaking me out.”

He releases another sigh and moves back from the edge.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my tight chest loosening.

Then his arms tighten around me, and he picks me up.

“Hey — hey! What are you doing? Shin — no, stop it!”

I throw my arms around his neck and bury my face into his chest, refusing to look as he carries me toward the cliff’s edge. “You’re awful,” I tell him, my voice muffled against his shirt.

“Have faith,” he says.

I pull back ever so slightly and look up at him. “Please don’t,” I beg.

His light green eyes are a little wide as they look down at me. He averts his gaze for a moment before looking back. Then his grip tightens around me before he says, “Take a dare.”

He throws me into the lake.

I scream. I probably flail a lot, looking like a general idiot.

But most of all, I fall.

The water splashes over me, and I gasp as the sudden coldness of it as it floods over my senses, covering me in brief darkness. Then my instincts kick in, and I begin moving my arms and legs, heading toward the surface.

I gasp for air when I break the surface.

From above, Midorima says, “I told you you’d be okay.”

“Jerk!” I shout at him.

“Oha-Asa —”

“I don’t care!”

And then a wonderful idea strikes me.

I let out a high-pitched scream, and he jumps. “Shin!” I shriek. “I think there’s something in the water. H-help me!”

“I’m coming!”

He makes a move to jump in, but I say, “No, don’t come into the water! It could be dangerous.”

He eyes me for a moment before nodding. “I’ll be down in a moment,” he says, then he races down the side of the cliff.

I smile, and begin swimming to the bank. It immediately drops off into deep water, so my plan should work perfectly.

“Etsuyo,” Midorima calls. “Are you still okay?”

“Something’s got my foot,” I tell him. “Come closer and help me out.”

He approaches me cautiously, and I pretend to be struggling at something in the water. When he reaches a hand out, I take it and yank as hard as I can.

By the resigned look in his eyes, I can see that he’d been expecting something like this.

He crashes into the water next to me.

Because, after all, having him jump into the water of his own will is no fun.

When he rises to the surface, sputtering, holding his glasses to his face with one hand, the other paddling through the water to stay afloat, I let out a peal of laughter.

“You look ridiculous,” I inform him. His hair is plastered to his forehead, covering his eyes.

I swim forward and before I can stop myself, I wipe my hand over his forehead, smoothing his bangs to the side so he can see. His skin is warm and wet against my fingers. He lets out a breath. I take his glasses from his hands, smile, and slip them onto my own face.

“My goodness, Shin,” I say. “Have you eyes gotten even _worse_?”

“A bit,” he mutters.

“Just a bit? Are you sure?”

He scowls.

I roll my eyes. Then I say, “Well, since you probably can’t see, I’m rolling my eyes right now.”

His scowl deepens and he asks for his glasses back.

* * *

We spend a little while longer playing in the lake until some other tourists come, and we decide to leave since we no longer have it all to ourselves. And plus, we probably look ridiculous in our soaked clothes when they actually brought swimsuits.

We change into our spare clothes at the resort at the bottom of the mountain, but since it’s only afternoon, we decide to stay out a bit longer and explore more of what the mountain has to offer (Midorima also says there are more lakes, which I adamantly refuse to visit).

We find a great slab of rock that’s supported upon two others, looking like a giant’s stone table. We trek through a beautiful forest of closely knit trees. We see some tall, thin waterfalls that refract rainbows.

An hour before we need to start heading back, we’re resting against a giant tree, observing some birds pick up their dinner, and eating some of our own snacks.

This is a bit surreal, I think. That I’m sitting right here beside him. Our shoulders are almost touching. If I lean in, I could be right beside him.

I wonder . . .

My cheeks warm at the thought.

He is my friend. I’ve sometimes wondered if he is something more. But today has gotten closer to that. . . . Today, it seemed like we touched more than we ever have before.

But still, that doesn’t mean anything has changed.

Do I even want things to change between us?

I bite the inside of my cheek and glance over at him. He holds a bag of chocolate-covered nuts in one hand, popping them into his mouth absentmindedly as he watches the birds feast.

He’s really smart in some ways, but in others, he’s kind of oblivious.

I realize I might kind of want him in _that_ way.

But in the end, he’s still my best friend, first and foremost.

My eyebrows furrow and I say, “Why did you stop replying to my letters?”

He drops the bag of nuts, and you can almost feel the temperature drop.

“Why?” I demand. I shift onto my knees, planting my hands onto the ground to face him.

“I . . .” He can’t face me. He turns his gaze away, looking anywhere but into my eyes.

“Look at me!”

I jerk his head toward me, until he has to face me, until he has to look straight into my eyes. “Why?” I ask. “I waited for weeks, for months, for just one letter, one word from you. and I never got anything. I thought, ‘Was it something I did? Said? Is he mad at me? Is something wrong with him or his family?’ I didn’t know, I didn’t know!”

“Etsuyo,” he says and his voice comes out a bit hoarse. “I don’t have an excuse. I don’t expect you to forgive me in any way. The truth is . . .” He shakes his head slightly, like he’s clearing his thoughts, trying to arrange them, trying to think of a way to start the story, how to tell me. He runs a hand through his hair. “The truth is . . . it was during middle school. I was enrolled in Teikou. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. And that’s when everything began to change. They began calling us the Generation of Miracles. The five of us, Akashi, Aomine, Murasakibara, Kise, and me. And even Kuroko, they named him the Phantom Sixth Man.”

He pauses, but I don’t say a word.

“It was a lot of pressure, trying to live up to everyone’s expectations. They all wanted us to win every single game . . . and we were able to. The six of us . . . we were practically unbeatable. No one could stand in our way.

“But that wasn’t strictly it. The truth of the matter is, they were my friends.”

Ahh.

“I was going to reply to your letter,” he says, and he actually sounds a little miserable about it. “But then I just kept putting it off. My teammates would keep asking me to go out and do things. Ice cream or extra practice, and I found that I couldn’t refuse. It was . . . somewhat fun with them.”

That’s the best Midorima can get to saying he really enjoyed spending time with them.

“And then I lost the letter. And by that time, it was already too late. We moved, and I never got another one. And I kept thinking to myself that I should contact you again, but eventually, I stopped thinking about it altogether.”

“I knew it,” I breathe out. “You did forget about me.”

“It’s not like that,” he says. “I didn’t forget about you. I just . . .”

“No, I understand. I was gone, I was somewhere else. So you found yourself friends who were present, people you could actually spend time with . . . I understand that.” My breathing begins to quicken.

I, too, craved companionship, but without Midorima I could barely speak to anyone, let alone find anyone to be friends with. Instead, I just retreated within myself, passing through classes quietly, and barely making a mark on anything.

And here’s Midorima, a Generation of Miracles, the ace of Shuutoku. He’s amazing. I’m just . . .

“I understand,” I whisper. Even though my voice is quiet, calm-sounding, my heart is racing, and a headache is starting, pounding.

He reaches out and grabs my hand, and I gasp. “Stop,” he says, and his voice sounds urgent for some reason. “Stop, Etsuyo. Whatever you’re thinking, don’t. I know that look, I remember it. Stop that.”

I look into his eyes, into the beautiful light green of them, and breathe out. My heart begins to slow at the sight of him.

“You’re wrong,” he says and he rubs my hand gently, engraving circles into my palm to relax me. “You don’t understand. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have stopped contact. I should have —”

With the hand he’s not holding, I press my finger to his lips and he stops speaking. I keep my finger there, a moment longer than necessary, to feel his warmth, and to see him blush.

I say, “Okay. Thank you. I get it now. But you know, does it really matter? It’s all in the past.” I let out a small laugh. “We’re together now. We can start afresh. So let’s make the most of it, okay?”

I draw my finger away, and his grip loosens on my other hand.

“You’re all right?” he questions.

“I’m fine now,” I say.

His brow wrinkles. “I didn’t think you had panic attacks like that.”

“I . . . I didn’t want you to know,” I confess. “They started after I left. They’re not from social anxiety, but rather . . . just whenever I get too worked up, I guess.”

He appears stricken. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It is.”

“Well, not all the way,” I amend, and then I give him a smile to let him know that I don’t blame him anymore. Besides, even if he stopped mailing me, I didn’t talk to him for our first year at Shuutoku. If anything, we are both at fault.

Somehow, even if it’s not a good thing, that makes me feel better.


	7. Dinner Drumbeat / Candles

I receive a text from Midorima the next day, letting me know that he won’t be coming over that morning because he’s already acquired that day’s lucky item and his sister needs him to drop her off at her school. I’m oddly disappointed by this. I’ve become used to seeing him nearly every day, and even though I know we’ll still have classes together, I’ll miss our morning walk together.

Before I leave the house, though, the door to Dad’s room opens. “Oh, hey, Etsuyo,” he says. “Good morning!”

“Dad,” I say, surprised. “I thought you’d already left for work.”

“Oh, I actually took the day off. Things are finally starting to slow down. Are you heading to school now?”

“Yeah.”

He frowns. “Doesn’t Midorima usually walk you?”

“He had to take his sister to school,” I explain.

“Oh, I see. Do you want me to give you a ride?”

“No, that’s fine. I’ve walked to school plenty of times on my own, Dad.”

“I see . . . well, how about you invite him over for dinner? Didn’t I tell you we could have him over? I completely forgot about that . . . I’m free tonight, though, so that’d work out well.”

I pause, thinking about the heavy conversation we’d shared yesterday. “Sure, that would be fine.”

He grins. “All right, sounds great. That way he can walk you home, too. I don’t like the idea of you being by yourself around the city.”

I roll my eyes, but nod.

* * *

“Dinner at your house?” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

I nod. “I’d have to stop and get ingredients. We barely have anything at home. Dad’s an awful cook, and since he’s hardly ever home in the evenings, I don’t tend to home cook, either.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You used to enjoy cooking,” he says.

“That’s right,” I say. “And you played the piano. Can you still?”

He flexes his fingers, and the bandaging on his left hand loosens a bit. He frowns, and starts to unwind it again so he can re-tape it. “A bit,” he says. “Not as much as I used to, though I’m sure I could still pick it up if I tried to.”

“You used to play a beautiful melody,” I say. “If you weren’t so involved in basketball, you would make a wonderful performer.”

He fumbles with his right hand and the roll of fresh tape drops to the ground. I bend to reach under my desk and grab it.

“Here,” I say. “Let me.” I grab his hand, and begin to wind the tape around. I’ve been around him enough to know his pattern, a hard-set way of doing it that he says leaves no room for error. His hand twitches underneath mine. “It must be hard to do it with only one hand,” I comment.

“I’ve gotten used to it,” he replies.

He curls his fingers slightly, and I can feel my cheeks heating up as our skin touches.

I finish wrapping his fingers, and tear the tape. As my hands leave his, though, the absence of his skin against mine feels too cold, too sudden, too strange. He stares down at his hand, and smiles.

I lean back.

He glances up at me, the small smile still on his face, and I feel unnerved. It’s not like I haven’t seen him smile before; it’s just that he rarely does it, so it’s like a gift each time he chooses to do so.

He says, “Could be tighter.”

I return his smile.

* * *

Looking back on it, I don’t think he ever really agreed to come over for dinner, but by some silent agreement, he’s walking me home — or rather, we stop by the store first to get some ingredients, and then head home.

As we reach my house, I call out to my dad. “Dad?” I say. “It’s me. I’ve brought Shin for dinner.”

For a moment, there’s no answer. Then Dad emerges from his room, a big grin on his face, his face half unshaved, his large shirt hanging loosely around him. “Well, well, well, look who it is!” he says. “Hello, hello there, Midorima-kun. It’s good to see you.”

Dad pulls Midorima into a hug, and Midorima stiffly returns it out of politeness’ sake. “It’s nice to see that you are doing well, too, Fukui-san.”

Dad grins, and pounds Midorima on the back. “How’re your parents doing? I haven’t seen them in a while. We kinda lost touch after a while . . . we should get back together, shouldn’t we? Next time we have dinner, you should invite them along!”

“They are doing well, sir,” Midorima replies. “And your wife?”

Dad’s eyes widen, and my heart drops to the floor.

I haven’t quite . . . told Midorima about that yet, either.

Midorima shifts, aware of the shift in the air, and adjusts his glasses. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Did I say something that I shouldn’t have?”

“Oh, no,” Dad says, his smile still frozen on his face. “It’s just . . . Isami and I divorced about a year ago.”

Midorima’s gaze swivels to me, questioning, probing, and even a little accusing.

I wish to disappear in a hole in the ground.

“I see,” Dad says, catching the shared glance between us. “Etsuyo didn’t tell you, did she? I suppose I can’t blame her. It was sudden . . . her mother . . . Isami and I . . . well, I suppose we —” He struggles for the words.

“Dad,” I interrupt. “I’ll tell Shin later, okay? It was my . . . fault for not letting him know the situation earlier. I’m just going to fix dinner now, okay?”

I try to use a soothing voice, and he seems to relax a little.

Midorima follows me into the kitchen to help me unload the groceries. For several long, tense moments, we don’t say a word.

Then, “Why didn’t you tell me? Is that another reason why . . . the attacks? Etsuyo, I’m sorry . . . I didn’t know . . .”

For once, he seems at a loss for words.

“I suppose . . . ,” I start, “I didn’t really want to think about it. So I didn’t.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“The idea of my parents being divided from each other, when I’ve always viewed them as one unit . . . the thought is almost unbearable to me. Can you imagine your parents like that? No, I don’t think so. I pushed the thoughts of the divorce out of my mind, and tried to think of everything else. And it worked to an extent, maybe too well.”

He gazes down at the stove as I stir vegetables in the oil, the sizzling sound overwhelming everything else.

“I see now,” is all he says.

And for some reason, I think he does understand.

* * *

“So, you still believe in fate?” Dad nods at the three short candles sitting by Midorima’s left hand on the table.

Midorima almost looks offended. But he shakes his head slightly and says, “Yes.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’ve been coming to use some of my stuff, haven’t you?”

“He carried that big clock over there all the way to school,” I chime in, and Dad raises an eyebrow. Midorima blushes slightly, but doesn’t back down.

“It was my lucky item for the day,” he says. “It was required of me.”

“Well, that is something.” Dad shakes his head and smiles. He glances at me then, and I can see the question in his eyes: about why I hadn’t told Midorima about the divorce. I nod slightly, reassuring him that everything’s fine.

“How has your work been going, Fukui-san?” Midorima asks, spooning some more rice onto his plate.

“Great, great. But more importantly than that, how is school going for you and Etsuyo? It’s great that you’re still friends. You were so close as kids.”

Midorima blinks. “Ah . . . yes. It’s all been fine.”

“What Shin means to say is that he’s been getting the top grades in our class.” I shoot Midorima a look — then smile. He shifts, and pushes his glasses up.

“That’s great!” Dad says enthusiastically. “You’ve always been very bright for your age. Etsuyo is pretty smart, too, but she never reached out to people when she needed help. I was always glad when you were there to help her study. You would do the same for her now, of course, wouldn’t you?”

Both of our faces flush. Parents really have no filter.

“O-of course,” Midorima says, and he moves his glasses again. His eyes flick toward me for a second. “I . . . would do anything for Etsuyo.”

Dad grins. “Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

Meanwhile, all I can hear is the steady thudding of my heart.


	8. Closer to the Heart / Tickets

“Etsu-chaaaaaaaan!” a voice calls — a voice that could belong to none other than Takao Kazunari.

I turn around in the halls, and he bowls me over. I gasp, and my heart leaps at his sudden contact, but I’ve gotten fairly used to his rambunctious ways.

“What is it, Takao-kun?” I ask him. “It’s way too early in the morning to be so excited.”

“Don’t be that way, Etsu-chan,” he reprimands. “I have some very exciting news for you and Shin-chan. Don’t worry, he’ll be happy, too. Of course, it has to do with his precious fate.”

Well, that is one way to Midorima’s heart.

As we head to class together, Takao babbling on about this one problem on the homework and did _I_ manage to do it?, but unwilling to tell me the surprise, I wonder where Midorima is. We walked to school today, today’s lucky item being a porcelain doll — simple enough, yet scary to carry around — but he disappeared when we arrived at school, saying he needed to talk to Sensei about something.

When Takao and I reach the classroom, Midorima’s already seated, the finely painted porcelain doll precariously placed on the edge of his desk, his head buried in a textbook.

“Yo, Shin-chan!” Takao calls cheerfully. “I have a surprise. You’ll love it, I promise.”

Midorima glances up, and adjusts his glasses. His eyes pass over me briefly. I wave and he blinks. “What is it, Takao?” he asks. “I swear, if it’s —”

“C’mon, Shin-chan,” Takao says innocently, propping himself on the desk next to Midorima’s and picking up the doll, “I wouldn’t do that to you again!”

Midorima narrows his eyes at him and sighs. “Very well. What is it?”

Takao grins at the both of us, and dives into his bag and pulls out —

“Concert tickets?” I say, surprised.

“Yep!” Takao says, beaming. “That’s tomorrow’s lucky item, too, right, Shin-chan? Tickets?”

“Not necessarily for a concert . . .”

“But tickets nonetheless! It works perfectly! Just thank me, Shin-chan. I am a genius.”

“Where did you get these?” I ask him.

“My sister’s friend’s older sister had some extras,” he rattles off.

Midorima and I stare at him.

He stares back for a few moments before saying, “Does it really matter?”

“I suppose not.”

I glance down at the tickets. “Are these good seats? What’s this band even?”

Takao holds a hand to his heart, shocked. “You’ve never heard of them, Etsu-chan? You wound me! Haven’t I told you about them before? Haven’t I regaled to you all their beautiful accomplishments, the songs they’ve written which have changed the world? The lyrics that carve deep into your soul and create in you a better person?”

I stare at him.

Midorima sighs. “They’re fairly good seats,” he replies for me.

“Have you been to a concert before?” I ask him and he nods. I cock my head, not really seeing him as a concert-going person. Perhaps it was for the sake of a lucky item, too.

“Takao dragged me to one,” he explains.

“Oh, I see.”

“Hey, what’s that tone for?!”

Despite ourselves, Midorima and I smile at each other. A furrow forms between Takao’s brow and he frowns.

He places the doll back onto Midorima’s desk and says, “Regardless, you have to listen to some of their songs before the concert tomorrow. That way you’ll be able to be familiar with them so you can fully enjoy the experience.”

“A concert expert, huh?”

He grins. “Sweetheart, music and basketball equal life.”

“I’ll have to ask my dad to make sure I can go . . .”

“But he’ll probably have no problems with it!” Takao finishes for me. “Your dad’s pretty lax, right?”

I let out a laugh. “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.”

“Excellent! And you, Shin-chan?”

He sighs. “It’s my lucky item.”

And that is the end of it.

* * *

Dad is actually thrilled about me going to concert. For a long time, he rambles on about the beauties of youth and how he used to love going to concerts as a teen, and if he had off, he would even purchase a ticket to go with me (how embarrassing). He hands me plenty of extra spending money for snacks and transportation, band souvenirs, and whatever else might strike my fancy. He even tells me to not hesitate to stay out as late as I want.

I wonder if he’s trying to make up for something.

Not that I feel any desire to stay out half the night, but I am grateful to him, and I try to make that known to him by stopping by to grab some ingredients from the grocery store with the money I was supposed to spend on souvenirs. I’ll make him a homemade meal later.

Takao and Midorima are supposed to be stopping by my house at five, so an hour before, I begin to get ready. I’m not quite sure how formal concerts are supposed to be or if you’re supposed to wear junk clothes, but I decide on some jeans and a plain but nice t-shirt. I braid my hair to the side, and apply just the slightest of make-up. I don’t generally wear make-up because I prefer to blend in rather than stand out, but tonight I’m feeling daring. Besides, it’s such a little amount that I doubt that either of the boys will even notice.

There’s a knock on the door, and from where I am still in my room, I hear Midorima let him and Takao in without further notice.

“Etsu-chan!” Takao calls. “Are you ready? Are you excited? Are you bursting with happiness and gratitude and — ow, Shin-chan, don’t hit me so hard!”

I burst out of my room, and say, “Hey! Guys! Hello!”

I flush.

They both stare at me.

Takao is the first to speak. “Etsu-chan . . . are you wearing make-up?”

They noticed!

At first, I’m filled with this odd glee. Then, a strange sickness. They noticed?!

My cheeks redden further. “U-um, I thought that maybe . . .”

“You look great, Etsu-chan!”

Midorima continues staring until Takao elbows him, hard, in the side.

“R-right,” Midorima says, and is it just my imagination, or did his voice crack? “You look . . . nice. Etsuyo.”

My breathing seems to quicken, slow, and then quicken again. He seemed to have said my name different than usual, softer and gentler.

Just . . . different.

“Well.” Takao coughs. “Let’s get going, shall we?”

* * *

The concert is loud. As expected from a rock band, the whole night seems to pass with the ceilings rumbling so hard they’re about to cave in on us. The crowd shakes and screams and jumps up and down, Takao included, while the singers onstage bellow and scream themselves. But everyone seems to be having a generally fun time, and I admit that I, too, am enjoying myself. It’s not my general type of music, but perhaps because things are changing so much of late, I appreciate the drums and the deafening music, and the throngs of grinning faces all around me.

Concert experiences are really quite amazing things.

“For our penultimate song,” says the leader singer of the band, leaning into the mic. “I’d like to sing something very special. This is a song I wrote a while back to someone who had a lot of impact on my life. She was amazing in every way and she pushed me to greater heights than I could ever achieve. This song is for her.”

The crowd erupts into cheers, and I find myself clapping along with them.

As the slow beats of the song starts, people begin to wave lights in the air — anything they can find, their phone lights, flashlights, glow sticks — anything that shines. The air takes on a mesmerizing sheen, and I begin to sway with the music, completely entranced now.

Yet somehow, through all the noises of the crowds, the loud notes of the music, and everything else, I still manage to hear his voice calling out my name.

“Etsuyo.”

I turn to face him, my mouth falling open slightly to ask him what’s up.

He leans forward, close — so very close, that even though, pressed in between the bodies of the large crowd, I suddenly feel shivers up my back. And yet I feel hot, too, because of his presence right beside me.

His lips are close to my cheek, his breath warming my skin. I’m fairly certain I’ve stopped breathing myself, that my whole body is frozen in this moment.

“Etsuyo,” he says again, and I swear I can almost feel each individual letter of my name scraping against my cheek, the syllables moving and folding within the flow of his voice, and bursting forth into the air.

“Thank you for coming back.”

I turn my head slightly, and his eyes are right there, staring into mine. They are large, but they seem more certain than ever. My lips widen into a smile. “Thank you, too,” I whisper, “for everything.”

He cocks his head, unable to hear me, but I don’t repeat myself, because I think he understands, regardless.

We’re best friends; there are some things we don’t need to say out loud.


	9. Realization / Ocean Eyes

He doesn’t contact me over the weekend, so I suppose he’s managed to find all his lucky items without my help. But still, a part of me aches with disappointment and wonder. After the concert, the air seemed to hum around us, and I wondered if something had changed.

It’s not exactly unusual for him not to talk to me, but I’d hoped he’d at least be coming over for the lucky items. I could always contact _him_ , I suppose, but the idea sends my thoughts whirling.

I couldn’t sleep at all after the concert, and I was glad it wasn’t a school night. I spent the whole time in my bed, staring up my ceiling, wondering and wondering what had happened.

Do I like Shin?

First and foremost, he’s my best friend. I’ve known him since we were small children, so you’d think it would be odd to view him in that way. But, perhaps because we were apart for so long, that’s why these new feelings have suddenly arisen in me. We have both changed, so now I’m able to view him objectively without my old childhood feelings clouding my perception.

But that still brings me back to the question: do I even like him in that way?

There’s a certain charm to him. Not visible at first. You have to peer hard; you have to make effort to see it. But if you spend enough time with him, if you’re stubborn enough to put up with his odd ways, you’ll see it. You’ll even grow attached to it.

Takao saw it immediately, and for that, I’m grateful. I think his other teammates, as well, have started warming up to him.

There’s the way he’s constantly messing with his glasses. I keep thinking he should get contacts — it would be easier to play basketball that way — but I can’t bear the thought of him without his ever-present lenses. There’s the way he tapes his fingers, and complains when I do it, even though I suspect he secretly prefers me to. There is, of course, the way he always has the lucky item of the day with him, in whatever form, no matter how annoying or meddlesome.

It is, perhaps, his stubbornness that is somewhat endearing.

His beliefs that he holds strong to his heart. His way of thinking, clear and logical, but right in just his own way. His apparent lack of affection, but in reality, his way-too-tender heart. Some might even call it a bit weak if they knew, and I think he himself suspects it at times.

_There’s no shame in falling down. True shame is in not standing up again._

That’s what he told me once. That’s what he believes, in always rising again, no matter what people believe about you or how they push you down.

And perhaps that’s the most wonderful thing about him.

Or, simply put, there is nothing about him that can be defined as his single best quality.

And as I come to this conclusion, I realize that I don’t like him.

I love him.

Which then brings me to the question: How does he feel about me?

* * *

On Monday morning, I linger at home for just a bit longer than normal, hoping that Midorima will race into my house, declaring whatever new, fanciful item he needs. But he never comes, and I wait as long as I can before I become late.

When I reach school, I feel like an awful lovesick schoolgirl for glancing all around for him. I pull off my shoes and reach for my school ones, thinking miserably upon this fact, and wondering if Midorima could be sick.

As soon as I walk into the halls, though, I spot his tall green head bobbing through the crowd of students, and my heart leaps inside of my chest — he’s heading straight for me.

“Etsuyo,” he says, parting through the crowd, and grabbing my arm.

My bag slips slightly off my shoulder, and he readjusts it, his hand brushing up against my bare skin as he does.

I’m about to speak, when he leans in close and stares at me straight in the eyes.

“What —”

It seems like we are even closer than we were at the concert.

“Ocean eyes,” he declares.

“What about them?” I say, unnerved.

“My lucky item, of course. Ocean eyes. Your eyes . . . are like the ocean. A beautiful mixture of blue-green. They’re perfect.”

I’m not quite sure if he’s saying they’re perfect for the lucky item . . . or just perfect. Either way, I feel my cheeks heating up at his proximity. He described them as beautiful.

And, perhaps because he’s making me uncomfortable, I say something very stupid.

“Does that mean I have to stay with you all day?”

I’ve never seen his face go so red before.


	10. Walls and Breakings / Music Box

In the end, I go to his house. I’ve been there a few times since we’ve reunited, but since the concert, it seems a bit different this time. His younger sister peers at us from her room before disappearing, and Midorima tells me to ignore her. His parents, meanwhile, are out on a date together. Must be nice, I think.

“I have some movies,” he says.

“Sure, sounds good.”

He doesn’t ask me about what I’d like to see, but pops one into the DVD player. I don’t argue, but curl up onto the couch in his basement, hugging a pillow to my chest. I trust his judgment, and I’m pretty sure he knows me well enough to know what I’d like.

He sits down beside me, and because something strange is still coursing through me, I turn and stare straight at him. It is dark and hard to see, but as the TV boots up, suddenly going bright, I can see myself reflected in his glasses.

“Am I making you lucky?” I find myself asking.

“I . . .”

He is at a loss for words.

I almost laugh, because it’s so rare for him to be rendered speechless, but it seems to be happening a lot lately.

“We did have a test today,” I say. “I’m sure you’ll get a perfect score. Not that you ever don’t.” I shake my head slightly, grinning to myself.

“If anyone is lucky,” he says, finally finding his voice, “it is you. You are the one who actually possesses the ocean eyes.”

“That is true,” I say.

And somehow, I do feel lucky. Because of them, I’m here with him.

I smile at him and shift, throwing the pillow to the other side of the couch, until I’m nearly on top of him. His eyes are huge. “Etsuyo —”

The movie plays in the near distance, but I don’t hear it at all.

I lean my head down and curl up against his chest, letting out a yawn as I do. He’s firm and warm, a rock wall . . . not infallible, but so strong.

“Etsuyo.” His breath comes in short gasps.

My eyes are closed, and I breathe in the scent of him. I grip his shirt, and I bury my nose into it. “Shin,” I say. “Is this okay?”

He doesn’t say a word. For several moments, he doesn’t move at all. Just sits there, stiff against me. Then, he begins to relax against me, and he wraps his arms around me, hugging me against him. I smile, and let out a sigh at his answer.

“Thank you,” I say.

He rests his chin hesitantly on top of my head. “Shouldn’t I be the one thanking you?” His voice sounds a bit odd, a little higher than normal. “You’re . . .”

He doesn’t finish, but I don’t need him to.

* * *

I’d texted Dad before I went to Midorima’s house, telling him that I’d be home late. Good thing, too, because Midorima doesn’t walk me home until after midnight. Both of us barely talk, each of our senses still buzzing. We didn’t pay much attention to the movie.

It wasn’t much, really. He held me. I lay against him, and hugged him so tight that my arms began to ache, but I never wanted to let go.

It’s not quite like a step. But it’s something.

“I’ll see you later, then?” I say to Midorima, at the steps to my apartment.

He nods, wordless, and turns to head back.

A small smile graces my lips, and I let myself into my house.

It’s not dark like I expected. Instead, I hear a laugh coming from the kitchen. I frown, my heart beginning to pound with anticipation, and move toward the sound.

Dad stands in the kitchen with a woman, his head back, mouth smiling widely, a glass of wine in his hand.

I stare.

Both of their gazes turn to me.

Dad nearly drops his glass. “Etsuyo! Oh, goodness, what time is it? I thought —”

“Who is she?” I ask him, pretending like the pretty woman next to him doesn’t exist. She narrows her eyes at me and clucks her tongue.

“This is . . .” He hesitates and offers me a smile. “This is Kurihara-san. She’s my girlfriend.”

I turn away, then, and when I reach my room, even though I want to, I don’t slam the door. Because that’s surely something that Mom would do, and I don’t want to be like either of them.

* * *

“Etsuyo.” There’s a knock on my door. “Etsuyo, I took the day off. Do you want to go out and do something? We could go to the mall. Grab a bite to eat. I’ll get you out of school —”

“Go away!” I yell at my dad.

When he persists, I rip the covers from over me, and storm to the door, and open it with such force that he stumbles back. “Etsuyo —?”

“I thought you were torn up over Mom!” I shout at him, tears springing to the corners of my eyes. “I thought that you were nowhere near getting over here. And yet here you are, already on dates with beautiful women, without even a thought for her! And she’s — she’s dating people, too — and you’re both just moving on, and I — what about _me_?”

I hate how my voice whines at the end.

Dad’s face softens and he moves to pull me into a hug, but I push him away. “I don’t want to go anywhere with you,” I tell him. “Tell your boss that you’ll come into work, after all.”

His face crumbles, but he nods.

I glance at my clock, and when I see that I’m already on track to be late for school, I dive back under my covers. Today is not starting well.

Of course, it only get worse.

My phone starts to ring no less than five minutes later.

“Etsuyo!” My mom’s bubbly voice spills over the speakers. “How are you doing?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer, but plows on. “Guess what? Guess what? Hada-san proposed to me! Etsuyo, we’re getting married! And he wants to take me to America! Can you believe that?”

I don’t respond. I want to hang up, shut her voice out of my mind, forget her words, but my hand seems frozen, unable to move. She babbles on.

“I want you to come with me, Etsuyo,” she says. “I think America will be a great opportunity for you. And your dad has had you for long enough. I miss you! And I really want you to be there for the wedding, which will be in America, of course. So I’m going to talk to your father today, and he really can’t refuse, of course.”

“What about me?” I repeat the words that I said earlier to Dad.

“What?” She falters.

“Do I have a say in any of this?” I ask.

“Don’t — don’t you _want_ to go to America?”

I practically scream at her. _“Why on earth would I want to go to America?”_

“Etsuyo!” Shock fills her voice. “What are you saying?”

“I hate this! I hate this! I hate all of this!”

My hand tenses, and feelings returns. I snap the phone shut and throw it onto my bed. It immediately begins to ring again, but I ignore it.

Then there’s a knock on my door, and I hear Midorima’s voice.

I whirl around. I’m still in my pajamas. I haven’t combed my hair. My emotions are even messier. I’m definitely not going to school. And Midorima —

“Etsuyo?” he calls.

I press my back against the door of my room, listening to his voice, calming my breathing.

“Today’s lucky item,” he continues. “It’s a music box. Do you think you have one?”

My stomach drops out, and before I know it, I’ve burst out of my room to face him.

“Etsuyo?” His eyes widen at the sight of me. “What are you —?”

My eyes catch sight of the music box, and I pick it up.

He holds his hands out in habit, but then I simply glance at him, and his eyes wrinkle in concern.

I throw the music box across the room and it shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things may seem a bit rushed, especially with how Etsuyo reacts to her parents and all. But obviously she still hasn't gotten over her parents' divorce and so she's just jumping to the worst and overreacting, letting her emotions go wild. As for the music box, while that hasn't been mentioned before, it will be explained next chapter.
> 
> Oh, and for the first part of this chapter (that actually had romance in it). I was a little bit nervous about writing Midorima and being able to correctly portray him, and especially a more romantic side of him. However, I don't expect him to be the type that is overly talkative about his feelings (he is a tsundere, after all), and with someone like Etsuyo, who he considers one of his closest friends, I think he would more so just quietly accept her feelings. While he can be very outspoken about things (like his lucky items), it seems he becomes quite awkward around actual emotions - I find that kind of adorable, actually. Midorima's kind of a funny dork once you get to know him. Anyway, if you think the way I've written him is wrong or right or anything, feel free to let me know. I'd love to hear any of your guys' opinions, thoughts, ideas, or whatever. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed!


	11. Confessions / Kiss

_It’s like a cliché._

_“Daddy, dance with me!”_

_The family of three, happy together. Have you ever thought about the name of the room they’re in? The family room. A room for families. Right now, they are a family._

_The mother sits on the couch, laughing and taking pictures with her phone. The father swings the little girl around. A music box plays in the corner, a pretty little tune twinkling out from it. The girl thinks of stars, she thinks of large open skies, she thinks of ice cream cones and rainbows — she thinks of happiness, and she thinks of her family._

_It’s so easy to lose oneself in a moment like this. And so that’s what she does. She spins and spins, wrapping herself into her father’s arm as he lifts her again and again into the air. She memorizes his laugh, her mother’s smile, and the beating of her heart, the feeling that that organ in her chest might explode any moment from the inexplicable, inexpressible joy inside of her._

_All the while, the music box continues to play its sound. It repeats the same melody. Over and over, like it’s saying that somehow, even if things do change, perhaps this moment can return._

* * *

I run from the house.

I can’t bear to see his face, eyes wide and shocked, but more than that, his expression: almost like fear, fear for what I’m going to do next, fear for me. Fear, fear, fear.

Is that what I’m feeling right now?

So I run. I slam the door behind me, not caring that I’m still in my pajamas, shorts and a loose t-shirt, not caring that tears are streaming down my face, and that I look wild, wild, all too wild.

I don’t get very far before he catches me.

After all, he’s the athlete, not me.

“Etsuyo,” he gasps out, and he grabs my arm.

At first, I tug at him, desperate to keep running until my lungs give out, my legs give way, until simply, perhaps, everything disappears.

Then, he embraces me and, for a moment, everything does disappear. The world seems to fall away, and it just seems to be him there.

I let out a ragged breath, and then I grip his shirt and bury my face into his chest, sobbing, wailing, shrieking, I don’t know.

He rubs circles against my back and eventually, my crying begins to slow, my breathing evening out.

“What happened?” he whispers, drawing away from me slightly and looking into my eyes.

I tell him the truth. “I’m going to America.”

* * *

My dad’s not a fighter. He loved Mom, but he didn’t fight for her when she wanted to leave. I know that when she tries to take me away, he will not fight to let me stay. And my opinion will not matter at all.

Midorima’s eyes widen. “America?”

I nod, and in a burst of words, I explain to him everything that happened since he dropped me off last night: finding Dad on a date with another woman; Mom calling me about getting married; her telling me that she wants to take me to America.

At the mention of America again, he grips my arms tight. It’s almost painful, but for some reason, I relish in it; his touch.

“You can’t go,” he says. “You just . . . you just . . . I’ve just . . .”

Again, he is at a loss for words.

I whisper, “I don’t want to go either. I want to stay here. With you.”

He shifts his gaze away, and I see the tint of pink on his cheeks.

I curl my fingers around his shirt. “I’m sorry about the music box,” I say. “It was . . . it brought back memories.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s fine?” I step back, surprised.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says.

I stare at him. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Besides that, we’re going to be late for school —”

“I’m not going.”

“All right. What are you going to do then?”

I stare at him once more. “You’re all right with that? Who are you?”

He lets out a snort. “I think skipping school is hardly the worst of your problems right now, Etsuyo.”

I suppose that’s true. “I could find another music box for you,” I offer him.

“I’ll go with you,” he says.

“You’re skipping school, too?” Now I’m really astounded.

He raises an imperious hand. “I’m not in the mood to let you go wandering around town alone.”

And that settles it.

* * *

A music box probably isn’t that hard to find, but for some reason, I end up dragging him to the arcades instead. I’ve always wanted to play an arcade game, and I’m surprisingly good at it. Midorima still usually beats me, though, with his good sense of hand-eye coordination. After that, we spend the rest of the day steadily forgetting about our original goal.

Midorima has a way of calming me down. Perhaps it’s the way that he always seems unshakeable. Whatever it is, I enjoy being with him more and more as the time passes, and I realize that I’m really not looking forward to leaving. I’d left my phone at home, but I’m sure Mom’s called me several more times. She might be halfway to coming to Japan to look for me herself by now.

I overreacted. I understand that.

But she didn’t even ask me about it.

And it all seems so sudden to me.

Sometimes, I wish I could be in Midorima’s family, with his loving parents and his adorable little sister.

But then that would be problematic because he and I would be brother and sister.

As I think about this, my face flushes bright red, and Midorima asks me what’s wrong. I’m unable to properly answer him.

* * *

Near eleven at night, we return to his house. We’d completely splurged on the day, and I’m sure Dad won’t be totally happy about the chunk in our savings account now. But hey, isn’t he the one who’s always telling me to get out and enjoy my youth?

Midorima’s parents and sister are already asleep, so we sneak up to his room. I’m not ready to go home yet either, so by some unspoken agreement, he’s letting me stay at his house tonight.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says.

“I can sleep on the couch,” I insist. “This is your room.”

I glance around the room, the copious amounts of books, and single basketball poster. Several of his previous lucky items are staked around the room and there’s an unopened can of red bean soup sitting on his desk.

“You’re the guest,” he says. “It’s only right that you should get the bed.”

But the idea of sleeping in his bed . . . where he’s slept . . .

“I’ll even change the sheets for you,” he offers, ever pragmatic and totally oblivious.

Well, there goes that thought.

“I’ll take the bed,” I decide, “but I want you here with me.” My face goes bright red, realizing how that sounds. “I mean, on the floor. You — you can sleep on the floor! That can’t be too much more uncomfortable than the couch, right?”

His face is somewhat red, too, but he agrees.

* * *

I lay out blankets on the floor for him while also trying to convince him not to go to the trouble of changing the sheets on his bed (seriously, why would he do that? I’m sure they smell wonderfully like him).

After I’m done arranging his bed on the floor, I slip into his mattress, while he crawls onto the ground. I pull the covers all the way up to my nose and breath it all in. It feels warm already.

For a few moments, we lie there in darkness.

Then I ask, “What’s tomorrow’s lucky item?”

He sits up and I see the bright screen of his phone flash on. “I’ll check.”

Several seconds pass.

I wait.

There’s no response for him.

“What is it?” I ask.

He still doesn’t reply.

I let out a grunt, and uncover myself, a whoosh of cold air sweeping over my body as I swing my legs over the bed to join him on the floor. He immediately shifts away from me, moving the phone screen away.

“What is it?” I demand, and before he can react, I snatch the phone from his grip.

And then I realize why he’d fallen silent.

Cancer

Congratulations! You’re ranked Number 1 for today. But remember, always keep your lucky item on you, regardless of your ranking!

Cancer’s Lucky Item of the Day: Kiss

_Kiss._

Heat floods my cheeks. I glance up at Midorima, whose expression I can’t discern in the dark.

“Well —” I start, then stop.

There’s nothing I can think of to say.

He says, “Perhaps there’s another definition.”

“There is absolutely no other way you could interpret this,” I say, harsher than I meant.

Is the idea of kissing me so repulsive?

His face shutters close.

I move over to him as my eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. He shifts — not nearer, not farther. Just a movement that shows how uncomfortable he is. The blankets beneath us are soft, rubbing against my skin. I grip them, but they’re not great support.

“What time is it?” I say quietly.

“A minute to twelve,” he answers immediately, but his voice cracks, showing his vulnerability.

I stand up, then, and he scrambles to join me. We’re directly facing each other now, and even though I’ve known how tall he’s gotten, it still strikes me speechless every time.

My heartbeat speeds up. I wonder, can he sense it?

I reach up — he tenses visibly — and place my hands firmly on his shoulders. Then I push down — hard.

“Crouch down,” I hiss. “I can’t kiss you if you’re looming over me like some freakishly tall giant.”

His eyes widen, and my face reddens even more. I’d said that awful word.

Dutifully, though, he bends his knees until he’s eye-level with me. Now, his gaze is steady, unwavering from mine. I stare at him.

He is everything to me.

What is more likely to ruin our relationship — a step back, or a step forward?

I dare.

And perhaps I follow fate.

His glasses bump against my face as our lips meet and I almost laugh and begin to pull away. But then his hands come up to my cheeks and tilt my head ever so slightly, keeping me in place. His fingers are warm. His lips are warm. He’s warm.

And I . . . I feel as if I am on fire because of him.

“Etsuyo.” He murmurs my name against my lips, holding it like a precious prize. My chest tightens and loosens, my heart speeding and slowing, moving at such paces that I feel like I might faint.

“Shintarou,” I breathe out. “I love you.”

His gaze fixes onto me, and there’s no hesitation anymore in his eyes. “I love you as well,” he says. Then his brow furrows. “You . . . you always knew that, right?”

A smile quirks the edges of my lips. “It was a bit ambiguous at times, but I don’t mind. What’s done is done, and we’ve both made some mistakes. Now, though, we’re together, and everything’s clear. Perhaps fate led us here, or maybe this is our own doing. Whatever it is, I am glad.”

He returns my smile, and says, “Oha-Asa is never —”

I kiss him and he promptly shuts up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so in this chapter we have a brief explanation of the music box. A small flashback to when Etsuyo's family was still whole and all. And then, she and Midorima go out to have fun and simply forget everything. I know, for me, sometimes just getting out to have fun and distract yourself can be a good thing. And for Etsuyo, while she knows she can't run away from things forever, she also wants to value her time with Midorima. Anyways, how about that kiss scene, huh? The title of this chapter was a bit of a spoiler, haha. I had that planned out in my head for forever. A lot of this story runs on the idea of some rather strange lucky items, in order to make it fun in an odd way. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. And thank you once again.


	12. Stand and Rise / Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random, but I was listening to this one song the other day, and I realized it fit this story quite well, especially this last chapter. The song is titled "Doors" and it's actually sung by Ono Daisuke, Midorima's seiyuu/voice actor. The tone of the song, as well as the lyrics, are about perfect. So if you guys wanna check it out, it's a good song.

The day, like many others, starts with a knock on the door.

My heart leaps up in my chest, and I scramble up from the couch where I was waiting and go to open it.

“Etsuyo,” he says, tumbling into the house, and dumping his school bag onto the floor.

“Hey. What is it?”

“The lucky items!”

Is it just me or is his face a bit red?

“Uh-huh. What’s today’s?”

He wrinkles his brow. “Ah . . . well, about that . . .” He adjusts his glasses and heaves a breath. “It seems that . . .”

I wait patiently for him to gather his thoughts and put them into words.

“So it’s your last day, right?” He glances at me, and his hands clasp together, almost like he’s nervous.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m leaving for America tomorrow.”

It was just like I predicted. When Mom called Dad to tell her about the wedding in America, I saw his face crumple, but he relented all the same. He even congratulated her. Later that night, he asked me what I thought about her fiancée, and I said it wasn’t really up to me anyway. That the same went for him and his new girlfriend.

In the end . . . I suppose my thoughts don’t matter at all. As long as my parents are happy. They probably think that way, too. Right now, they are focused on finding new futures for themselves. I guess that’s okay. Who knows? Maybe America will be a good experience for me.

Of course, it would be easier if I weren’t leaving someone behind.

Midorima Shintarou. It’s not like we’ve officially announced that we’re dating or anything — yet perhaps people at school, and even my oblivious dad, can tell that something is different between the two of us. Sometimes, I feel people sneaking glances at us, and for the first time, I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.

For the last few days, I’ve made provisions for moving to America during summer break. Apparently, they’re about to start their new year of school, even though in Japan we’ll just be starting our second term. It’s unclear how long I’ll be there, but probably for the remainder of my high school years at least.

That seems like a terribly long time to be without Shin.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” I repeat, as if the words will make it more real.

He swallows. “R-right. Of course.”

Somehow, at this moment, he seems very young. I look up at him and suddenly, I smile. He stares at me. I say, “It’ll be all right, though, yeah? I mean, last time, we were separated for years and years and years . . . and that didn’t stop us. That didn’t stop this.”

He blinks a few times. I reach up and pull his glasses from his face. I think he hates it when I do that, but he doesn’t protest this time. I lay the glasses onto a nearby table, and his eyes dart briefly toward the movement.

Then I’ve closed the distance between us. I plant a kiss right on top of his nose. His breath catches.

“Feel that?” I say. My own heart is pounding, thumping so hard, so hard, and when I lay my hand over his heart, I can feel his beating just as fast. “That’s telling you something, isn’t it?”

He stares up at me, a myriad of emotions in his eyes. Then he nods, a dip of his head.

I cock my head. “You’re not saying much. Is that today’s lucky item? Silence or something?”

He frowns. “No . . . it’s . . .”

I wait.

Finally, he sighs, and he says, “It’s a promise.”

“A promise?”

“Yes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. I shiver despite myself. “Here,” he says, and then he reaches inside his pocket and brings something out and hands it to me.

I take it in my hands to see . . . a letter.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“A letter.”

“I can see that.”

“It’s a promise,” he clarifies. “Read it when you get to America. And if you will . . . write me back. This time, I promise I’ll reply as well. And I won’t ever stop.”

 _Oh._ I see. A promise. I smile, and my hand traces the edges of the letter. “Thank you. If that’s the case . . . I suppose I’ll make a promise as well.”

His eyebrows lift, since I never seem to take my lucky items seriously. But he also probably knows that it’s less about the lucky item part and more about the actual promise.

I hold up the letter between us, and I say, my voice firm, “I promise that no matter what happens, whatever things keep us apart, whatever things come between us, I’ll always love you. _That’s_ my promise. Forever. I love you.”

“Etsuyo.” His eyes are wide.

I give him a watery smile, and then I’m horrified to realize that I’m almost crying. The first tear slips down my cheek.

“Etsuyo!”

“I — actually, it’s not really even a promise,” I choke out through my tears. “It’s like this great thing inside of me that’s so sure . . . I mean, I’ve always loved you, so I’m sure I’ll continue to always love you. I just . . . I want you to know that. So I guess, there’s my promise to you.”

I break down then, because I don’t want to leave him.

But he holds me up, he keeps me steady.

“You once told me,” I say, through hiccups and sobs, “that there’s no shame in falling down. That the true shame is in not standing up again. Well . . . we’ve both made mistakes . . . but now . . . now, it’s time for us both to rise up again, huh? Make a fresh new start. Let’s do it, Shin. Let’s make a future together.”

His eyes are fixed in me, and for a moment, I’m convinced that’s all he sees: just me. He says, “All right. That sounds . . . nice.”

“Even if we’re not actually together,” I continue. “I want to do everything with you in mind now. So, keep me in your heart, okay?”

He presses his hands against mine. “Don’t be stupid,” he says. “You are already everything to me. I could never forget you.”

“Right . . . right.” My chest seems to be bursting with happiness, so much I can’t contain it.

So I do the only thing I can think of. I lean forward — he seems to be moving at the same time, spurned by the same thought, and our lips meet in the middle.

He’s my best friend, he’s my boyfriend, and he’s my future.

Through it all, we’ve changed, and we have yet to change, but that’s okay. Because even if fate has put us up to that, and even if it’s been pulling the strings all along, there’s something that not even destiny can predict: and that’s the bond between the two of us, the strength of it, and the sureness that no matter what, we’ll always stand up together.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was a bit mushy. Some more declarations of true feelings (those "I love you's" always make me feel awkward, haha). In the end, I did choose for Etsuyo to leave. I don't think this story necessarily has a "sad" ending, though. Even though they're parting . . . it's more bittersweet. Because they are friends, so they're very close and understand each other well. Etsuyo's pretty much summed up my thoughts on the matter. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with Midorima and Etsuyo for these twelve chapters; until next time!


End file.
